"I'm glad you think so," he returned just as softly. "I kept quiet, trusting your expert guidance, but the feel of this place-"
I spun toward him and saw vines wrapping around his waist. His eyes were wide with shock.
"Father!" I flew toward him, tugging at the vines, but they didn't budge. More crept toward him, starting a slow familiar shuffle I knew would pull him into the estate. He read the fear on my face and tried to reassure me.
"Stay here, Benella. I'll return soon. This is only my first offense."
I kept pace with him, but the vines tugged him up into the treetops and out of my sight.
"Don't follow me," he called in warning. "You've trespassed too many times already."
Ignoring his warning, I spun and ran blindly toward the gate. Panting, I arrived to hear it creak open, barely able to make out the mist shrouded bars before me.
"Please," I begged. "My father didn't mean to trespass; he was only following me."
A growl started in the dark mist to my right, and I knew the beast waited for me.
"You refused me?"
Concerned about my father, I frowned in confusion before I realized what he meant. The trunk. I played as if I didn't understand. If the beast continued talking to me, he wouldn't be able to toss my father over the wall.
"If I recall, I did not refuse your last request of me. I still have the shirt to prove it," I answered, still slightly out of breath.
"The trunk," he said.
"The trunk someone left for my sister, Blye? What of it?"
"The offer was meant for you," he said in a deceptively soft growl that unnerved me.
His direct answer surprised me.
"Me? Why would I need all that cloth? I don't sew. Blye does."
"You wanted a shirt. I offered the means to own several shirts."
I didn't know what to say except, "Why? Why did you offer for me?"
"You need not concern yourself with that," he growled his frustration. "Will you assent?"
"I cannot."
Birds in nearby trees screamed in protest at his rage filled roar and took flight in a rush of a dozen flapping wings.
"Only a few days ago you lay on the ground, telling me you cared not whether you lived or died. Holding so little value to your life, why not agree to my offer?"
With effort, I kept my voice soft and even to hide my fear.
"Value is an odd thing, subject to whim. What one might find value in, another might not; what has value today might not have value tomorrow, depending on the wants and needs of the evaluating individual. You prove this yourself with the same example you just provided. Several days ago when I lay on the ground indifferent to what fate might decide, you were not so interested in me. The issue is that neither of us understands the reason why we changed our minds."
He remained silent, perhaps thinking I had more to say on the matter. I didn't want to push him any further though, so I let what I said linger in the quiet for a while before speaking again.
"My father?"
"Is unharmed," he spoke softly just behind me. My stomach twitched in surprise, but I managed to quell any other reaction to his unexpected nearness.
"May I have him back, please?"
Gently, he touched the back of my head, a single stroke of my hair from crown to the tip of my braid, which ended mid-back. He lifted the braid and tugged on it slightly. I held still before him, listening to my great gusting breaths as I remembered the last time he'd touched me when I'd thought him a pile of furs.
"I will return him to you whole and healthy in hopes that you may yet change your answer, Benella," he said as his fingers threaded through my hair, loosening the braid.
As soon as my hair fell free, he disappeared.
After a few moments, I heard the rustling of leaves above, and the mists lifted enough that I spotted Father trussed up in the vines high above. As soon as he spotted me, he went from looking intrigued to looking worried.
"Go, child!" he called in an urgent hush. The vines began their stretching descent to bring him to the ground. "I just heard the beast's roar and know he must be near waiting for me. You shouldn't have come inside the wall."
I remained despite his urging to flee. When his feet touched the ground, the vines loosened and then shrank away.
"What an amazing journey," he said, watching them for a moment before remembering where we were and the imminent threat of the beast.
"This way," I motioned him to follow before he could say anything. We walked through the gate, which slammed closed behind us with a metallic clang.
* * * *
For the next several days, I stayed away from the estate, not out of fear, but because Father forbade me to return. I struggled to find anything in the area outside of the estate's boundaries. Though the fish were plentiful, I knew Bryn and Blye grew tired of them. Bryn tried cajoling me into another trip to the baker; but with nothing to trade and her unwillingness to part with a coin, I left her angry while I went to fish.
During this time, we entertained several more suitors, which both of my sisters rejected out of hand. Father nodded each time, accepting their answer; but I read the concern etched in his expression. Then one day, with solemn acceptance, he said we should begin packing our belongings to leave the next morning. None of us questioned him, but we all wondered how we would live in the tiny two-room house.
* * * *
In the morning, Father walked to the smith to borrow the wagon he'd used last time. Into it, we packed the rest of the books, Father's bed and my sisters' bed, our trunks, cookware, and the last of our food. The desk, table, and remaining bed stayed with the house to entice the next schoolmaster. While we worked, a crow cawed at us incessantly.
When we had everything loaded, Bryn and Blye climbed onto the bench seat with Father while I sat on the backend of the wagon. The crow quieted as Father clucked the team forward, and I wondered what he would tell the beast.
We pulled onto the main road of town, and I noticed the butcher outside his door and gave a wave of farewell. The baker watched from the shadows of his porch, but I pretended not to notice. Sara stood near the quiet anvil at the smithy, looking down at the ground. I wondered what would become of her husband's dealings with the baker, knowing the blunt silver had already run out for her.
Clearing the village, the wagon jostled ponderously north until the road curved near the estate. There the woods remained eerily dark and quiet until it too passed from sight. Riding in a wagon, even if it was a butt-bruising ride, ensured a more pleasant second trip to Water-On-The-Bridge.
Arriving well before lunch, Father took a circumspect route to our new home, avoiding the main thoroughfare with its questionable businesses. We worked together to unload our belongings, cramming them into the main room of the very small house. Then Father drove the wagon back to the smith. While he was gone, Blye packed her precious dress and walked to the dressmaker, who agreed to hire her but could not offer her lodging.
Bryn and I put together Father's bed in the main room and set up their bed in the single, private room. With effort, we also managed to wedge in the three trunks. When we finished, I eyed our house with dismay.
The kitchen came equipped with a stove and dry sink like our prior cottage. Near the stove sat a table for two with two chairs. Not three feet from that, Father's bed sat against the back wall between the door to the backyard and the door to our room. A fireplace, cleverly set on an interior wall, worked to heat the main room and the room beyond. Before the fire, a worn stuffed chair would welcome a weary scholar. To the right of the fireplace, just before a window set into the front of the house, sat a desk and several shelves that already brimmed with Father's books. To the right of that was the front door, bringing my slow turning tour to an end.
In all honesty, this house was meant for a single man or a married couple. Father had no room for any of us.
Excusing myself, I went for a walk to check the market district. Better to learn costs and who would be willing to trade right away. By dusk, I'd determined the only thing we'd changed was the size of our house. But, at least, I didn't have to worry about the baker or the smith's sons.
Sighing, I returned to our new home empty-handed. Father already pored over his books, and a very watery version of stew waited for me.
* * * *
We celebrated Father's first week of pay by purchasing meat and flour. After not eating anything the prior day, all of us looked forward to the meat pie Bryn fixed. As I bit into my portion of the meat pie and gravy dripped down my chin, I thought nothing could have tasted better. However, too soon those supplies ran out, and we were back to going hungry. I noticed Father's neckcloth seemed a bit longer and the shirt that Blye had just tailored for him a little looser. My own dress gaped a bit from my waist now.